William found the crack on a quiet afternoon.
He was helping an old farmer named Torvin clear rocks from a new field. The soil was thin here, close to the mountains. The work was slow, hard. William’s hands were blistered, but he didn’t stop.
The crack was small—barely visible beneath a layer of dead grass. William almost missed it. But something made him kneel. Something made him brush the dirt away.
The glow was faint. Blue. Pulsing.
Like the mana crystals in Veridias. Like the Rust.
But different.
"Torvin," William called. "Come look at this."
The old farmer walked over, his face creased with years of sun and wind. He looked at the crack, at the glow, and went pale.
"We thought it was gone," Torvin whispered.
"What is it?"
"The Saint's other legacy. Not Rust. Something older.
